


The Morning is When Night is Dead

by punk_rock_yuppie



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Angst, Dark, Flashbacks, Heart Break, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Manipulation, Multi, Sex, Unrequited Love, the coldflash is pre-slash levels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 13:18:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6330760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>the ghost of you is close to me</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Barry is falling apart; Len listens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Morning is When Night is Dead

**Author's Note:**

> this has been a long time coming. i can't totally decide if i'm 100% pleased with it or not but i think it's good enough to release into the wild. (for warnings/explanation, check the end notes. might be kind of spoiler-y, though). 
> 
> i hope you enjoy, and feedback is greatly appreciated!

Barry hates feeling selfish. He’s always strived to be more than that, especially given his circumstances.

His mother dying, his father falsely imprisoned, no one believing what he saw—Barry essentially had a free pass to be a jerk his whole life. He could’ve passed it off as a million things for a million reasons and even if people wouldn’t have liked him, they probably would’ve understood.

It’s because of that, the road that could have been so easily taken, that Barry has always worked three times as hard to put others ahead of himself. He’s always felt there’s too much evil in the world, and he never wanted to contribute to that.

That’s part of what makes the singularity so awful, for Barry more than anyone else. The death and destruction _he_ caused all to fix an unfixable problem. It had been selfish of Barry to go back in time and now he was reaping the consequences. It’s why he’s rebuilding the city in the dead of night. It was why he’s donating as much as possible of the hefty funds left to him by Wells— _Eobard_ —to families of those lost to his selfish mistake. It was why he has separated himself from his friends and family: to keep them safe and keep them from getting hurt more than they have already. Barry never wants to feel so selfish and sick again.

Yet, each night, when his time as ‘The Flash’ is over and he returns to being regular Barry Allen for a few hours, that feeling creeps up on him again. Even in the midst of everything else Barry can’t shake the lingering feeling of heartache. He can’t shake the way heartsickness burns within his chest. He can’t ignore how his broken heart is the heaviest burden weighing on his shoulders. Try as he might to focus on being a hero again, the tragedy of Central City does nothing to distract Barry from the disaster that is his emotions.

Some nights a soft voice—one that sounds almost like his _mother_ —tells him it’s okay to feel this way. He’s still a boy, the voice swears, and it’s natural to feel this way. It’s natural to feel overwhelmed and suffocated even if it feels childish to be distraught over a broken heart. The voice is soothing and even and caring, and Barry loves the voice as much as he hates it. He doesn’t want to be at peace with his broken heart, he just doesn’t want to feel the shards of heartache digging into his chest at all anymore. He doesn’t want to feel much of _anything_ anymore. He hates the voice because it urges him to feel and to forgive himself but that’s the last thing Barry wants.

Barry wants to fix everything, and Barry wants to forget everything—but he knows he can only have one. He’ll chose the former, every time.

Most nights—and most mornings, most days, most always—a different voice echoes in the confines of his mind. A cruel harmony of Harrison Wells and Eobard Thawne, this voice spares no expense for Barry’s feelings. The voice reminds him how ridiculous it is to feel this empty over something as pitiful as _love_. The voice scolds him for feeling this hollow over a relationship rather than the deaths of hundreds. The voice doesn’t let Barry hide from his shame, and in the sickest way Barry _appreciates_ it.

Barry wants to forget everything, but this voice doesn’t let him.

 

 

_The first time Harrison kisses him, Barry feels faint. It’s the most awkward, awful angle—even worse than Barry’s first kiss behind the jungle gym in elementary school—but it sets Barry on fire. Harrison is in his wheelchair, has reached up to curl his fist in the collar of Barry’s shirt, has yanked the younger man down into the kiss with no preamble. It is simultaneously unexpected and entirely predictable. Barry doesn’t even remember the conversation that had preceded it, or if anyone else is in the room._

_It’s a sweet kiss, passionate but not biting like Barry always sort of expected. Harrison has always been full of wit and taunt, but the kiss is deceptively soft. Barry collapses to his knees and ignores the pain that ignites in favor of not breaking the kiss. He rests his hands on Harrison’s shoulders and the kiss turns from fumbling to steady. It never deepens, though. It stays delicate and precious even if it lasts far longer than necessary._

_The first time Harrison kisses him, Barry realizes he’s in love._

 

 

Everyone knows, now, and it’s only humiliating if Barry lets himself acknowledge it. Everyone pretends that Barry’s façade is working; they pretend to believe his cheer and smiles and heroism. It’s fake, and they all know it, but Barry appreciates the courtesy. He also appreciates that for the most part no one brings up his broken heart. Iris sometimes offers to binge watch his favorite show, tries to bribe him with gallons of his favorite ice cream. Cisco offers video game marathons. Caitlin offers to engineer super strength booze. But none of them offer very often and Barry never, ever accepts their offers.

To accept their offers would be to acknowledge everything that happened. He can acknowledge the singularity.  He can take responsibility for that. Barry would rather die than confront the demons lurking in his heart.

 

 

_They don’t kiss or hold hands or touch in front of the others. Their banter hardly changes, and no one seems to catch Barry blushing more often than before. Harrison is as smooth as ever and virtually nothing changes in his demeanor. Barry tells himself they’re hiding the relationship because of the age difference, because Harrison was once married, because they’re mentor and student. Barry tells himself it’s because there are more pressing matters to tend to than their sex life and Barry convinces himself there’s no reason to air dirty laundry in the cortex._

_Barry pointedly doesn’t of himself as a dirty little secret. He shoves away the part of himself that wants to confide in someone, anyone. He doesn’t ever ask Harrison if they’re going to ever come clean when the danger has subsided enough. Barry doesn’t think of holding Harrison’s hand in public, or kissing him under the mistletoe that Caitlin puts up at Christmas, or going on dates or building a future together as a couple rather than as just a team. Barry doesn’t let himself think about any of that._

_It’s far too dangerous to think about any of that._

 

 

Barry knows the sleepless nights and restless days are impacting his abilities as a hero. Tired, sluggish, near uncaring—Barry knows he is crumbling. It almost doesn’t feel worth it. Often in his mind he stacks of the list of good things he’s done to the list of bad and always manages to lengthen the latter. Barry considers hanging up the suit for good. Not only because he feels like a failure but because it reminds him of Eobard. It always will, even if Cisco designed it. It’s Barry’s suit but Eobard is as much a part of it as the stitching at the seams.

When, in the midst of a heist, Captain Cold catches him on the shoulder not with ice but with an oddly warm hand, Barry wonders what else the universe wants to drop on him. Barry eyes the thief with a dull stare. Barry doesn’t take in the concern in Snart’s eyes or the downward twist of his usual sneer. Barry doesn’t realize what’s happening until his arms are looped around Snart’s middle and they’re speeding through the night on a motorcycle.

 

 

_Harrison isn’t the first man Barry has been with, not the first person at all. But Barry feels nascent and naïve when they’re in bed together. Barry isn’t sure if Harrison actually has more experience or if it’s just Barry assuming so because of the man’s age. Regardless, Barry feels dizzy and electrified when he rides Harrison, sucks Harrison off, bends to Harrison’s every will. It’s as though Harrison has awakened something in Barry previously dormant._

_Harrison is far from a selfish lover but Barry knows their give and take is disproportionate. It’s not because of Harrison’s disability, and it’s not from lack of desire on Barry’s part. Barry wants to receive, wants to take everything Harrison has to give. And yet, for all of Harrison’s command and control in bed he seldom takes care of Barry the way Barry takes care them both. Maybe it’s Barry’s desperation that negates the need for Harrison to be delicate and overbearing and saccharine sweet to Barry under the covers. That’s what Barry decides to tell himself, at least._

 

 

Snart sits him down with a gentle push. Barry falls to the couch but doesn’t otherwise move. Snart walks away and for a moment Barry wonders if he’s going to be ambushed, attacked, destroyed—his line of thinking derails when a stray thought of _that’s already happened to you_ flicks through his mind. He has already been destroyed, attacked, and ambushed: by Eobard Thawne wearing Harrison Well’s skin. Barry is deep in his thoughts when Snart comes back, a mug of hot cocoa in each hand.

Barry takes the mug without thinking about it and guzzles it down with no regard for the way it burns his tongue. Snart, instead, sips slowly at his and sinks to sit beside Barry. Snart doesn’t push but Barry pretends he does. Barry pretends that Snart is pushing him to talk, forcing him to confess everything that has been bottling up inside for months now. Barry caves when nothing but dregs of cocoa are swirling in the bottom of his mug. He starts talking and it feels like he might never stop.

 

 

_Barry always thinks he imagines it. It’s the only explanation he can think of as to why faceless whispers haunt him all the time. The words are spoken with an even and venomous tone and Barry always refuses to match the face to the voice he knows too well._

**_I’m going to take you apart._ **

**_You will never be truly happy._ **

**_I’m going to destroy you, and the best part is, you’re going to love it._ **

**_You’re going to love me for the rest of your life._ **

**_I’m going to kill you._ **

_On those nights when the whispers return, Barry wakes feeling more exhausted than ever. He can hear them on the edges of his dreams, as though the voices are daring him to wake up and confront the truth. Some nights he swears he feels a hot breath skimming the back of his neck and the words spill onto his skin—as though the person behind the voice is right there, clinging to Barry’s back. The sharp tones of the words cling to the inside of Barry’s skull and burn like fireworks on the Fourth of July. He can’t completely ignore the whispers, no matter how much he wants to._

 

 

“He betrayed me. He built me up—he literally created _The Flash_ —and tore me down brick by brick and there’s nothing I can do about it. He made me so many promises and he broke every single one of them. Well,” a mirthless laugh, “ _almost_ all of them. The one thing he made good on what making sure I’ll never be _normal_ again. I can never go back to what I had before and sometimes I can’t think of a single thing I want more than that. I would give up all of this in a heartbeat if it meant never having to know him the way I do.”

Len’s own empty mug _clinks_ as he sets it on the coffee table. He doesn’t speak and his silence spurs Barry on.

“I know what he tastes like, and what he smells like, and— _fuck—_ I know what he _feels_ like and I can’t stand to look at myself anymore. I look at myself and I see nothing but _him_. I see everything he created and everything he gave to me. I’m not _me_ anymore; I’m the person he always needed me to be. I’m not my own person anymore because I gave up _everything_ to be what he needed. I don’t even know what I used to be like—I just know I want to go back to it.”

Barry pauses to catch his breath and force some tension out of his body.

 

 

_Barry feels ashamed and disgusted when it happens. He had only gone to see the other man to get answers. That had truly been the only reason. Barry never meant for it to happen again, after everything that’s already been revealed. Wells—Eobard? Barry can’t figure out how to separate them in his mind, isn’t entirely sure there’s anything to separate—the man is eager to give up most answers. Barry tries to gain the upper hand but with every retort Wells—Eobard—whoever—delivers, Barry feels himself backsliding. Barry can’t bring himself to walk away now, not even as he realizes that there’s never been a Harrison Wells; there has only been Eobard Thawne._

_“Why would I ever do that?” Barry asks with his eyes narrowed._

_“Because, Barry Allen, if you give me what I want… I’m gonna give you what you want.”_ _The man’s taunt is accented with a pointed gaze up and down Barry’s body._

_But he can’t resist, and he hates himself for it. He can’t even pretend to resist the pull Eobard offers. His blood runs cold but he can’t resist. Barry makes quick work of temporarily disconnecting any cameras that could incriminate them, and makes even quicker work of getting him and Eobard naked._

 

 

“I would give up everything—these powers, knowing Cisco and Caitlin, shit, even having my dad out of prison… I’d give it all up if it meant I didn’t have to deal with this. I can’t stop thinking about him. It’s like he’s constantly buzzing in my head. If it’s not just the ghost of him then it’s all these memories and the fucking worst part is none of those memories are _bad_. It’s all the good stuff. The times he helped me and took care of me and told me he _loved_ me. I wish I could at least be stuck thinking about all the shit he did, all the horrible things he did. But I can’t. It feels like all I can think about is how much I loved him. How much I still love him.”

 

 

_Eobard fucks him tender and slow, no matter how desperately Barry begs for it to hurt, to burn, to be the last time. Barry wants it to ache; he wants Eobard to hurt him this way too, so that Barry can walk away. Instead, Eobard eats him out with care and tenderness he never showed before. Instead, Eobard fingers Barry gently for what feels like hours. Barry has already come twice by the time Eobard sinks his cock inside Barry’s stretched out and eager body._

_Barry wants to be fucked but Eobard won’t give him that._

_Barry comes, sobbing Well’s name, pressed against the wall of the particle accelerate chamber, Eobard slamming into his body from behind. Barry feels wrung out and boneless from the near eternity of torment Eobard put him through; Barry feels so loose-limbed he doesn’t even protest as Eobard shifts, as Eobard turn Barry so that his back is to the wall and they’re face to face. Barry’s cries increase in pitch and frequency as he loops his arms around Well’s shoulders. Barry desperately searches the icy blue ices of this man—his mentor, his lover, his everything—for any thread of remorse._

_Barry kisses back eagerly when Eobard leans forward. Barry scrambles to pull the man closer and moans in relief when the familiar feeling of Eobard coming inside him takes over his senses. Barry cries, silent and exhausted now, as Eobard takes the time to redress them both. Eobard uses his superspeed, of course, but for Barry it feels like it happens in slow motion. Every sidelong glance and smirk Eobard shoots his way, Barry doesn’t miss a single one. The way Eobard licks his lips as he buttons Barry’s pants is not lost on Barry._

_When it’s over and they’re both dressed, Eobard gives him the rest of the answers he wants. When Barry leaves the particle accelerator chamber, he feels achingly hollow and nearly turns back. Not long after, when Barry watches him die, it feels as though an enormous, gaping hole has split open his chest._

 

 

“I want to hate him so much but it feels like I’ll never get there. I have these moments, barely even a few seconds, where I feel this burning in my chest and I want to _hurt_ him like he hurt me—but then it’s gone and it’s like, if I let myself pretend, it feels like everything is still okay and nothing has changed. Sometimes I wake up and I swear it’s like he’s still in bed with me and everything is fine. He isn’t the man who killed my mom, he isn’t the man who turned me into some freak and tried to farm me like a _crop_.”

Barry doesn’t flinch when Len’s hand returns to grip his shoulder. If anything, he melts into the grasp.

“I feel like I’m fucking lost without him, you know? He was my mentor. He was meant to be there for me. He _was_ there for me. He was always in my ear and he was helping me and half the time when I’m out there,” Barry gestures vaguely to Central City outside the safehouse, “I feel like I’m out to sea with no lifeboat or whatever. I feel like he dragged me out to the middle of the ocean and left me there to fend for myself. It’s like he was my life-preserver and now he’s just _gone_ , just like that. I feel like I’m constantly in over my head and drowning and sometimes I’d just rather be dead than—!”

The rest of Barry’s sentence, whatever it might have been, is muffled when Len hauls him in for a crushing hug. Len’s arms are tight like a vice around Barry’s body; one of Len’s hands cups the back of Barry’s head and cradles him with comfort. Barry doesn’t move, his arms are pressed tight at his sides so he can’t even return the gesture—which, he would kind of like to, maybe. It doesn’t feel like being selfish, to be hugged like this. It doesn’t feel selfish to be ranting to Len. It feels like relief, however temporary it might be. Barry relaxes into the arms around him and falls silent. Len picks up where Barry left off.

“You can’t die, kid. You’re gonna get through this, even if I have to hold your hand every step of the way. I’m not letting that asshole ruin you. You’re too good for that. You’re too good for me, or him, or this whole fuckin’ city. You’re too good for this _world_ , Barry Allen. And you’re sure as shit not going to go offing yourself any time soon, and you’re not gonna go running back in time to stop yourself from becoming the Flash. You’re going to keep moving _forward_ even if I have to fucking carry you to the future.”

Barry stays silent and still for a long time. He’s crying fat tears when he nods against Len’s shoulder. He finally raises his arms and clutches at Len’s back, moving even closer. Barry sobs without restraint and Len lets him. Len doesn’t shush him or try to quell the sounds. Len holds him tighter and murmurs constant, soft, reassuring things in his ear.

**Author's Note:**

> a lot of what Barry talks about is directly channeled from my own semi-recent serious break up. i needed an outlet for those feelings and this is what i decided to do. 
> 
> warning: there is a lot of barrison/eobarry in this; some of it is introspection, exploration of their relationship, some is just plain ol' smut. that said, it is also meant to showcase said pairings in a negative light. (i mean, i love both those pairings but for the purpose of this fic, ya know, yada yada). the intended course for this fic is coldflash, and i'll hopefully write a second part exploring Barry's recovery and Len's hand in that.


End file.
